On the final day of the schoolyear, one of Ms. Rodrigues’ fourth-grade students stayed behind in the classroom to help return the cork bulletin boards to their naturally “nude” state and then move the textbooks from inside student desks to the bookshelves that ran along one side of the room under the windows overlooking the swing-sets on the recess playground. Young Linda worked with her teacher silently and efficiently.
The day before, Adelita had told Linda’s mother, Lesley, that she would be moving the next week so that her husband, Luis, could take a new job in the fall as band director at a high school near Salem. She said she hoped to get hired as a grade-school teacher there, but right now that was uncertain. Lesley, a faithful “room mother” for Adelita’s class all year, was pleased but also somewhat saddened when Adelita called to thank her for the excellent support. That was when Lesley had asked if Adelita could use assistance packing up the classroom so it was ready for the succeeding teacher. “You know, Adelita, Linda would be happy to help.” That comment gave Adelita the opening to thank Lesley again for her year-long support and to speak further about the concept itself: “You know, Lesley, in ten years as a teacher I have never had a ‘room father.’ Why do you suppose that is?”
Lesley laughed. “Maybe in the future.”
“I have always had good room mothers – some better than others, all seemed dedicated.”
“Yes, certainly,” said Lesley. “I’ll make sure Linda is available to stay after and help on your final day.”
Their classroom had never seemed so quiet.
As they neared completion of the final-day tasks, Linda whispered, “I feel like someone has died. Those books lined up over there are like people sitting in pews at a funeral.”
Adelita put an arm around Linda’s shoulders. “Yes, Linda, I think I see what you mean.” An unplanned thought came to life. She tightened her hold. “Your mom told me you grew up in a house without television. Is that right?”
Linda blushed. “But I think we’re going to get one.”
Adelita lowered herself into a position like that of a baseball catcher and looked into her student’s eyes. “Books mean a lot to you, right?”
Linda’s face remained red as she nodded.
“Me too,” Adelita said, leaning forward to place a brief kiss on Linda’s forehead.
For a few moments, Adelita was thinking about asking Linda if she wanted to earn a few dollars for helping Luis pack up the couple’s fairly large book collection in preparation for the move to Salem. But then it occurred to her that sometimes “context is everything,” that she should let Linda retain this leave-taking memory as it now was – its own moment of something organic – and not risk altering its integrity by inserting possibly artificial details around its edges. (Perhaps after they got settled in their new place, she would mail Linda a book. She knew Linda was interested in stories about Oregon pioneer children coming across the prairies in covered wagons. Perhaps . . . if she could find one, that is, that was not “sugar-coated” – did not distort the ensuing realities of relations between settlers and Native Americans.)
Mr. Dallas, the long-time custodian, was sweeping down the long dark-wooded hallway outside the classroom door. Adelita waved through the window and got his attention. He put down his long-handled and wide-ended broom and came over to see what Ms. Rodrigues might need. He smiled when she told him and quickly accepted the offered camera. Later, after getting settled in Salem, from time-to-time Adelita would review her copies of the snapshots she had sent to Linda and her mother, glad the color images had not made the room look as “abandoned” or as “funereal” as her young helper might have felt it to be. She remembered how that had concerned her as she and her pupil walked out of the room together on their way to an uncertain summer, one she had guessed might seem to stretch out longer for one than for the other.
Raised in a bowling alley on the rural coast of Oregon, James Joaquin Brewer currently shelters in West Hartford, Connecticut while working on a collection of coordinated fictions about anachronistic encounters among possibly time-traveling poets of the past. Published writing of a variety of genres appears in The Seattle Post-Intelligencer, The Write Launch, LitBreak, The Hartford Courant, Aethlon, Jeopardy, Rosebud, The Poetry Society of New York, Closed Eye Open, The Manifest-Station